


with a wonder and a wild desire

by driedupwishes



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, M/M, Multi, Renaissance Faires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:12:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedupwishes/pseuds/driedupwishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian's history professor suggests he go visit the renaissance faire about an hour away from campus, but every time it's mentioned he feels like he's shaking apart, suddenly too tall despite having stopped growing nearly two years ago. He doesn't mean to go, honestly he doesn't, but something about the opportunity call to him, loud and clear, like a battle cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter one

“You wanted to see me about my paper, sir?”

“Hmm?” Mr. Williams looked up from the desktop, where he had been rifling through his satchel and pulling out different papers since he had dismissed class several minutes ago. “Oh, Killian,” he said, grinning at the college student that stood awkwardly on the other side of the desk. Killian shifted at the attention, fingers restlessly playing with the straps on his backpack. “One second, lad, your paper’s in here somewhere…” The short professor went back to digging in his satchel, reaching up to push back some of his short blond curls away from his eyes. 

Mr. Williams was easily the most professor-like professor that Killian had met, but at the same time he was the most not-professor like man he’d had teach a class. Mr. Williams talked like they were having tea, one on one, and not like there was an entire auditorium seated in front of him. He dressed in clothes more suited to having tea with the Queen than anything else, with velvet waistcoats in ridiculously bright colors and ties that usually matched his socks. Many of Mr. Williams mannerisms struck Killian as odd for an adult, as the man had a tendency for sitting atop desks and rambling on about the more interesting parts of history, like who had affairs with who and what scandals were running through the gossip mills of 18th century London. He made history more interesting than Killian had ever found it before, even the more boring parts. 

“It’s alright, Professor,” Killian said. He had spent nearly a week perfecting that paper in the hopes that it would impress his teacher. He couldn’t explain it, but he wanted to impress Mr. Williams more than he had ever wanted to impress a teacher before. Mr. Williams made a face before suddenly breaking out into a wide, beaming smile. 

“Aha,” he crowed loudly, holding up one paper above the mess of papers he had strewn across the desk. “Here it is,” he said, tipping his head back up to look at Killian. He reached up, brushing a hand through his hair again. Killian tried to give Mr. Williams a weak smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. Mr. Williams went on, undeterred.

“I wanted to talk to you about your topic,” Mr. Williams said. Killian’s heart sunk and his stomach flopped. He had dreaded this when he had selected the topic, scared that this would invoke the same reaction it had when he was in middle and high school. Apparently he was in for another round of “your topic of medieval weaponry is interesting and very well researched, but maybe too well researched because it seems to be almost obsessive in detail and that worries me”. Killian felt his shoulders drop in disappointment, even as he fisted his hands at his sides and gritted his teeth. He thought Mr. Williams would understand, being not only a history professor but also a medieval texts expert, but apparently he was-

“The way you talked about medieval weaponry was brilliant!”

“Um,” Killian said, blinking rapidly. “What?”

Mr. Williams went about collecting the papers he had tossed about and started shoving them back into his satchel. He was beaming from ear to ear, bouncing a little bit while he stood behind the desk. “Oh yes,” he said, enthusiastically, “the sources you used for research were top notch and the way you twisted the topic and focused it in on the way different kinds of weaponry spread across Europe was fascinating. I particularly liked the focus and detail you put into the sections about archery.”

“I,” Killian tried to say, but he ended up swallowing thickly and blinking even more rapidly. He felt almost light headed, like he could faint at any moment. “I like medieval weaponry,” he ended up blurting, feeling foolish and off center. Mr. Williams chuckled a little bit, Killian’s paper still in hand.

“I could tell,” he said, not unkindly. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you, actually. Have you ever tried archery?”

“No. I always wanted to, but I never really got the chance.”

Mr. Williams hummed quietly. He twisted to leave the room and Killian stepped up to follow him, moving past the students that were trickling in for the class after theirs and out into the hallway. Mr. Williams didn’t pause, instead turning and walking toward the stairway. Killian didn’t have the faintest clue where they were going, but something pulled him to follow his professor, something more than the paper in his hand. They took the first flight of stairs in silence, but on the landing up to the second flight Mr. Williams glanced over his shoulder, an odd look on his face.

“Have you ever heard of a renn faire,” he asked quietly.

The word sounded familiar, but Killian couldn’t think of why. “No,” he admitted, puffing a little as he tried to keep up with the small professor. How in the world a man that short could climb stairs so fast, he hadn’t a clue, especially since he towered over the blond man by almost a foot. “Sorry,” he added. Mr. Williams waved him away, giving him a wry smile.

“No harm, lad,” he said. He turned and opened the door to the fourth floor door, opening it easily despite the fact that Killian knew that door stuck almost all the time. “Renn faires are the shortened title of renaissance faires, which are pretty much what they sound like. Usually they are put on by societies that enjoy dressing up and reenacting parts of the culture, like reenacting battles and jousting. They’re rather enjoyable, if I do say so myself, but I usually just dress up and enjoy the sights. Getting battered around by swords and such is a rather nasty business in my opinion. But it’s enjoyable to watch, of course.”

Mr. Williams probably would have continued rambling on, but they had reached his office door and he drew up short. In contrast to earlier Killian didn’t feel awkward at all, his shoulders relaxing as he listened to the grumbles Mr. Williams spat out as he dug for his keys. Mr. Williams eventually dug them out, unlocking the door with a few bit off swears. Once the door was open and they were both inside Mr. Williams dropped behind the desk and into the chair there, leaving his satchel on the floor. Killian dropped down into the squishy chair on the other side of the desk, letting his backpack slide off his shoulders and onto the ground.

“What was I saying,” Mr. Williams asked, tapping his finger on Killian’s research paper as it sat on his desk.

“Um, you were describing renn faires.”

“Oh yes, thank you. As I was saying,” Mr. William continued, dragging a hand through his hair and propping his chin up on that hand when he was done. “The reason I mention them is there is a lot of medieval weaponry used during these events, such as lances, swords, shields, and a whole slew of bows. I was wondering if you had ever been to one, because I believe you’d rather enjoy one.”

A jolt traced down Killian’s spine, like a spark of static electricity that started at the nape of his neck and raced downward. He swallowed thickly and tried to ignore the strange feeling that was inching through his body, like he’d lived through this moment before, only reversed. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and shrugged purposefully, trying to seem as unaffected as possible so that his professor didn’t think he was a nut job.

“There’s a faire the weekend after next,” Mr. Williams continued. His bright smile was gone for the most part, leaving on a sliver of it in the crooked corners of his mouth. “It’s only about an hour’s drive away. They call it the Oakentowne Faire. I’ve got a flyer about it if you’d like.”

Killian shifted in the seat, dragged his feet against the carpet of the floor, and tried to breathe normally. It felt like there was a beehive in his chest, making his fingers tingle and his heart pound as his skin prickled with energy. He blinked a few times and tried to focus on Mr. Williams to keep calm, but the more he looked at Mr. Williams the less he saw of him and the more he felt like he was going to shake apart or explode. 

“Easy there,” Mr. Williams murmured. Killian blinked and found the man sitting on the table in front of him, leaning forward with a hand on his broad shoulder. The professor squeezed his shoulder quietly and for a minute the blond haired man looked unbearably sad about something. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said quietly. 

“It’s alright, Professor,” he rasped out. It felt like he hadn’t had anything to drink in years. Mr. Williams hopped up from the top of the desk and scurried around to the mini fridge in the corner. He pulled out a can of soda and a bottle of water, holding them both out to Killian to choose. Killian took the can slowly, his hand trembling as he did so. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Mr. Williams gave Killian a sad little smile, one that turned the college student’s stomach upside down. “It’s alright, lad,” the small man said quietly, hunching in on himself. For one horrid moment the professor seemed ancient to Killian, wrinkled and broken, his hair white and his face creased, but that moment was gone before it could fully register. Killian shook his head slightly at himself, wondering if he hadn’t stayed up too late last night studying. Finals were next week and while they were rough he’d never actually hallucinated before of them before, but the image was so firmly in his mind now that he didn’t know what else it could be. He took a deep breath and tried to convince himself that he was just tired, that Mr. Williams wasn’t an ancient wrinkled old man; he was in his early thirties, for Pete’s sake, and the only wrinkles he had were laughter lines around the corners of his eyes. 

“Here,” Mr. William said. He was holding out Killian’s research paper in one hand and his sad smile was off his lips and hidden in his eyes. “You did a good job on the paper, Killian, and I’m proud of you for that. Go get some rest, lad, and I’ll see you during finals.”

Killian swallowed roughly and stood, finding his legs to be steadier that his hands. “Thank you, Professor,” he mumbled, taking the paper from him and bending down to shove it in his backpack. He moved to leave the office, but found himself hanging back at the last moment, unable to move. He turned around, hands curling nervously around the straps of his backpack again, and blurted out, “you really didn’t think my topic was worrisome?”

“Worrisome,” Mr. Williams repeated, blinking.

“Yeah,” he said, shifting. “Like, you don’t think I have a problem?”

“A problem,” Mr. Williams echoed, utterly baffled. “Why in the world would I think you have a problem?”

Killian shrugged, feeling his cheeks heat up as he did so. “Dunno,” he muttered, feeling nine instead of nineteen. “It’s just that, well… Other people have found my interest in weapons to be worrying before.”

Mr. Williams snorted, the sound loud and inelegant. He shoved up the sleeves of his dress shirt before slouching back against the desktop, hands braced against the edge. “Killian,” he said, giving him a wry smile, “I have studied medieval texts almost fanatically for nearly fifteen years. I haven’t the time or fancy to toss stones about in glass houses.” He tipped his head to the side and seemed to study Killian for a long moment. A feeling of familiarity bubbled up in Killian’s chest, like they’d be in this position before, but he knew they hadn’t. “Besides,” Mr. Williams continued, “I know quite a few individuals that share your interest in weapons, though most of them tend to lean toward axes and swords instead of bows.”

“Oh,” Killian said. Mr. Williams said nothing more and he turned and fled Mr. Williams’ office without another word. He heard the man sigh softly behind him as he did and his stomach knotted in response. An uneasy feeling followed him all the way down the hall, causing him to choose the stairs instead of the elevator. He took them two at a time, the feeling of static building along his spine again as he did so, making him rush faster and faster until he burst onto the first floor like he was being chased. He didn’t breathe properly until he was back in his dorm room and even then the strange feeling lingered in his head.


	2. chapter two

Killian didn’t see the flyer hidden in his research paper until breakfast the morning after his last session of Mr. William’s history class. He was sitting cross legged on his dorm bed, a bowl of Lucky Charms balanced precariously on one knee as he leafed through the paper. Mr. Williams had scribbled his own thoughts on the topic in the margins of the paper, responses to Killian’s own theories that were beyond helpful. The college student had started to feel awful about his response to the professor’s suggestion the day before, right up until he came across the flyer tucked in front of the last page of his research paper. He flinched so hard at the sight of the flyer that he spilled his cereal all over the bed. 

“Fuck,” Killian hissed, jumping up and out of his bed. He stared in dismay at the mess he had made before bending down to snatch his research paper off the floor where it had dropped. The flyer fluttered out of it and lay innocently on the ground, face down. He left the paper there for two more days until the weekend had passed and his roommate stopped asking about the odd piece of paper left on the ground. When he finally did pick it up it barely two hours before his history final and he only held it for a few seconds. 

_Oakentowne Faire_ the top of the flyer read. It had the address of the fairgrounds and the dates and times on which the faire would be held. The first weekend was going to be that weekend, the first day activities happening in less than five days. There were pictures intersecting the text, brightly colored tents, men in armor, ladies upon horses, but that wasn’t what caught his eye. Scribbled at the very bottom of the flyer in his professor’s familiar handwriting were the words _an old friend once told me that the world is not in books and maps, but out there beyond one’s front door. Don’t just sit around and wish your chances good morning, Killian._

Killian felt too tall when he read those words, his hands too small, his chin and neck oddly exposed. His hands shook around the paper and his breath wheezed in his chest. “No way,” he muttered, shaking his head at the paper in his hand. It suddenly felt weird having short hair, even though he’d had short hair all his life. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” he muttered again. “This is too damn weird.” Heart pounding, Killian turned and shoved the flyer under a stack of papers on his desk to be forgotten about and left to rot. 

That determination lasted right up until he woke up that Saturday morning, an energy buzzing in his veins he couldn’t begin to describe. He tried to sleep in past 8 o’clock, but he couldn’t, so he tried going to the gym. Three hours of running and weight lifting later and he was still twitching, drenched in sweat and becoming more agitated by the moment. He took a shower at the gym, his scowl so fierce no one bothered to wish him good morning, and all too soon found himself standing back in his dorm room, staring at the empty place his roommate had vacated three days before. He wasn’t meant to move out until tomorrow and all of his things were already packed up. He could leave early, he thought, and he latched onto that idea before dismissing it angrily. The apartment he was supposed to move into wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow. 

It was 11 o’clock when he found the flyer while straightening the mess of papers stacked on his desk, which was the only thing he hadn’t cleaned up yet, since most of those papers were just going to go in the trash as he left anyway. The words scribbled in the familiar handwriting mocked him, making him shake even more than before. His gut turned and he felt like he was young again, standing on a cliff edge and listening to someone ask if he was too scared to give scaling the mountain a go.

He had never scaled a mountain before in his life, alone or with company. But the feeling was there, so brilliant and right that he grasped onto it, gritting his teeth stubbornly. 

“Nothing to be scared of,” he said aloud. He was grabbing his wallet from his desk, keys already in his other hand before he could spare a second thought. He typed the address into his phone’s GPS even as he took the stairs down to the parking lot two at a time, almost tripping twice. The drive there flew by, until he was sitting in the parking lot of the fair grounds of the city an hour away from his university, hands still wrapped around the steering wheel but the car somehow off. If he had thought he was jittery before it was nothing compared to the feeling bouncing around inside his chest at the sight of the sign declaring the ticket booth was this way, ribbon strung it up between two trees. He couldn’t see the ticket booth for the trees surrounding the dusty fair grounds parking lot, but a few people wandered from their cars and below the sign, dressed in normal clothes, jeans and t-shirts and tank tops. 

Killian fought to breathe. He took the keys from the ignition and then put them back in, making to twist them and leave. A moment later he was holding his keys in his lap, one hand on the door handle. It was like he wasn’t completely controlling his body, some outside force pushing his limbs toward that bright hanging sign. He leaned over to the passenger seat and snatched up the flyer he had brought along, reading the words at the bottom of the page once more.

“The world is not in books or maps,” he said aloud. His voice sounded creaky, like a door that had not been opened in many years. He swallowed before placing the flyer carefully back on the passenger seat. He thought briefly about folding it up and keeping it in his back pocket, but something about that made him nauseous. He left the car in one uncoordinated motion, nearly falling flat on his face as he fought to get his legs firmly underneath him. He suddenly understood the saying “weak as a newborn foul” and he was left standing, leaning against the half-closed door of his car for a moment. The sun beat down on him, making his already damp hair heavier with the beginning of sweat. Eventually he was able to stand, locking his car behind him before carefully making his way toward the gap between the trees where the entrance sign hung.

Mr. Williams had made the faire sound like it was a crowded, wild thing, but the ticket booth had only three lines, two of them empty. There were two older women and a teenage girl in the third line, both dressed in jeans and t-shirts like him. Killian walked up to one of the empty lines, stopping short at the sight of the woman behind the glass.

“Hello,” she said. She was smiling, which crinkled the skin around her eyes into crow’s feet. There were ribbons braided into her hair, their color a dark forest green color that complimented her complexion. 

“I like your dress,” Killian blurted, before the woman could continue her sentence. Her cheeks went pink and her smile grew. The feeling of static in his blood that was becoming more and more familiar jumped to an all new level. Her dress was the same forest green as the ribbons in her hair, hanging elegantly off both her shoulder with a border of silver embroidered knots. It reminded him of something, but of what he couldn’t say. Starlight silver and forest green…

“Thank you,” the woman gushed, grinning brightly as she drew him out of his thoughts with a jerk. “I made it myself a few years ago.”

“Seriously? That’s…” Killian bit his lip, shifting his shoulders restlessly. “That’s amazing.”

“Well aren’t you a sweetheart,” the woman said, cheeks still pink. “Is it just you dear, or are you with someone else?”

Killian had spent most of his life alone, but suddenly it felt odd for there to be no one at his back. He bit his tongue and nodded, shifting restlessly as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. The two women and the teenage girl in the ticket lane next to him finished paying and turned to move on, wandering past him. He watched them go for a split second, distracted by the design of a red dragon on one of the women’s shirts, until the woman behind the booth cheerfully told him the price. He fumbled the money to her, turning back and smiled as widely as he could when she wished him a good day. He turned, the sudden need to ask that woman about her shirt pulling at him, only to stop a few feet past the booth at the sight of a man in a strange hat.

“First time at the faire, miss,” the man was saying to the teenager. He was tall and slim, with hair the color of kicked up mud and a moustache that was almost cartoonish. He wore brown breeches and dark leather boots, a long sleeved shirt of rusty orange and a doublet of white with a brown embroidered crest in the center of a tree. The clothes should have looked strange on him, they really should have, and they did for the most part, but they also suited him. His hat was the thing that had Killian routed to the spot, however, even though it was just a simple brown hat that slouched to one side, a rusty orange feather sticking out of the top. The hat suited him and yet didn’t, the feeling of wrong stronger than the feeling of right. Killian couldn’t put his finger on what disturbed him most about the sight, but he wasn’t given time, as the teenager nodded her head quickly, shoulders hunched shyly, and the man laughed and waved her on to join the two women further forward.

“I hope you have a great time then, lass,” the man said to the embarrassed girl. She made to hurry past him, giving him a shy smile with chapped lips, and the man winked at her merrily. “And slay any dragons you see for me, won’t you?” The girl laughed quietly, calling back that she would as she hurried after the two women. Then the man turned to look at Killian, who was standing about five feet from him.

The buzzing static feeling vanished completely the second the man’s eyes met his. The college student stopped shifting restlessly and his fingers, which had been tapping his ticket against his leg, fell almost too limp to grip the paper. He took a deep breath, chest loosening with every second the man stared at him, until he felt centered. He hadn’t felt this calm and sure of himself in years and he found himself walking toward the hat-wearing man without a second thought, lips pulling into a smile.

“I’ve never been to one of these either,” Killian said, the words coming to him easily. “Anything in particular you suggest seeing? I don’t think I’m quite up to fighting a dragon.”

The man swallowed thickly, a strange tilt to the smile he returned. “Aye, dragons can be mighty intimidating and best left to those who can handle the fire.” The man held his hand out for Killian’s ticket, which Killian handed over easily. The hat-wearing man ripped the ticket stub off the ticket, more clumsily than he had for the teenager, before handing back to him slowly. “If I were you, lad, I would go to the far end of the faire,” he said finally. There was a weight to his voice; a weight that settled in Killian’s breast like it belonged there. “You’ll find something mighty interesting if you wander out to the back of the faire.”

“Thanks,” Killian said. He tucked the rest of his ticket back into his back pocket, lingering for a second longer before stepping forward. He could see the clearing where the rest of the faire was now that he was moving out of the section of trees where the ticket booth was, but before he could get too far the man’s voice called him back.

“If you find yourself in trouble today, lad,” the man said, strangely serious, “just ask for ol’ Bo.”

“Bo,” Killian repeated. “Alright, thanks.”

“And if you see any orcs around here, I’d suggest running away.”

Killian blinked. Orcs, he thought; he’d seen orcs in fantasy movies, of course, but the idea that he might find some here… He swallowed, but the man was already turning back to face a couple that had wandered up after him, his voice animated and lively once more. 

“Orcs,” Killian said to himself quietly. He stood there a second longer before swallowing and shaking himself, stepping forward. Whatever had been driving him crazy all morning had passed and since he was there he might as well wander about the faire and enjoy it. If he saw Mr. Williams he’d apologize for his behavior, but the thought slid from his mind almost before it had begun, because up ahead, just around the corner, there was a fenced in area with armored men atop horses.

“Jousting,” Killian said. He hurried forward as trumpets blared into the air, a different kind of excitement building within him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's probs obvs who ol' bo is but if it isn't, it's bofur! i went to my first renn faire with my mom and her friend when i was like sixteen and it was so small and quiet. i loved it instantly. it's grown so much tho, i'm so excited for this weekend to see how much larger it's gotten since last year!
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! the rest should be coming throughout this week and sometime over the weekend C:


	3. chapter three

The jousting was fantastic. Killian grabbed a seat upon one of the bleachers and set about cheering with the rest of the crowd without a second thought. He stomped his feet and laughed at the announcer’s glib comments about the two jousters, both of which resorted to foul fighting no less than twice. The announcer, a bald man with a neatly trimmed dark beard and an accent thick and wild, something just east of Scotland Killian guessed, was a riot. The two knights, Sir Bernard and Sir Arthur, where charming and gallant, their colors red with gold accents and green with black accents respectively. The opposite side of the field had Bernard to cheer for while Killian’s side rallied for Arthur, who ended up winning the joust but lost the brawl. Killian’s heart pounded the more the announcer spoke, the accent seeming less and less odd the more he rode around, circling the field on his broad speckled mount. 

The jousting ended, knights bowing to the cheering crowd, and the announcer started a spiel about the horses and the club that had put together the show. Normally Killian would have wandered off directly have the excitement, but he found himself lingering, eyes stuck to the bald Scotsman as he spoke. There was something familiar in the man’s speech, in his backhanded compliments and his brash, straight-to-the-point attitude. Whatever it was Killian couldn’t put his finger on it to save his life, but he pushed the feeling aside, wandering out of the bleachers and following the small crowd away from the field. The knights rode atop their horses back to an area just out of the way where they could rest before the next performance. Neither knight inspired the same familiar feeling the announcer did.

“What’s that,” someone said next to him. He twisted a little bit, noticing the two women from before with the teenager, who was gesturing to some sort of cleared area at the far end of the field from the entrance. There were two towers built at the top of the smaller field, along with a stage on one side, two sets of bleachers, and a row of hay bales across from the stage and towers. There were costumed people bouncing around the roped off field, which was split up into checkered squares. Killian’s curiosity peeked as well and he slowed down, eavesdropping a bit as he did so. 

“Hmhm,” one of the women said, the younger of the two middle aged pair. “Oh, that? Live chess. I think there’s supposed to be a showing within the next ten minutes or something. The schedule should be in the flyer I gave you.”

“Live chess,” the teenager repeated, face lighting up. The sight made Killian grin and he ducked his head so that the kid wouldn’t see him grinning at her like a creep. The girl swung a drawstring bag off her back and dug through it briefly, pulling out a folded up flyer with a tiny noise of victory. She unfolded it briskly, biting her lip as she bent her head over it. The girl’s steps faltered, becoming slower as she read, but the two women didn’t pause to wait.

“Are you coming with us or do you want to watch the chess?”

“I’m going to watch the chess,” the girl said, pulling to a stop by the smaller set of bleachers by the chessboard. A boy dressed in white and blue was animatedly telling the slowly gathering crowd that they were seated upon Arthur’s side and that they were going to witness the downfall of the evil sorceress’ Morgana’s rein.

“Alright dear, call us if you need anything!” And with that the two women wandered off, seeming content to leave the teenager on her own. The girl studied the chessboard for a minute before nodding quietly to herself and marching off, going around the hay bales until she reached the opposite side of the chess board, where two women in black and green outfits sat. Killian then watched as she sat down on the bleachers, head bending once more over the flyer. He bit his lip, feeling like a total creep, before following her.

“Um,” he said, once he had reached her side. He was still a few feet away, but the poor girl jumped like she had been struck. She had brown hair that glinted red in the sunlight, freckles dancing across her nose. Her eyes were green like the trees within a great forest and though she sort of reminded him of someone that familiar feeling he was becoming used to was so small he hardly recognized it. “Hi,” he said, holding his hands up and grinning, trying to show he meant no harm.

“Um, hi,” she said, echoing him. She glanced down at the flyer in her lap, then to the chessboard, and then back to him, skittish and small. He eased back another step, feeling like a creep.

“Sorry, I just-“ He usually didn’t have issues talking with people, but obviously today wasn’t just any old day. “Is that a schedule for the day?”

The girl blinked, glancing down at the flyer in her hand. “Yeah,” she answered. After a beat she shuffled her shoulders, bit her lip again, and then held it out to him. “Do you need it look at it?”

“If you don’t mind,” he said, reaching out for it. The girl gave him a small smile, shrugging a little bit again. He took the flyer and scanned it quickly, noticing that there was another jousting match at five, a bird show at three, and four more chess matches after this one, each an hour apart. He studied the timetable for a moment longer, noting that there were several smaller acts throughout the day, jugglers and musical performances that didn’t spark his interest much. He held the schedule back out toward the teenager, glancing at the chess board as he did so. He thanked her absently as she took it, eyes caught on one of the performers moving along the edge of the chessboard. 

There was a man on the other side of the chessboard, over by the “good” side, who struck that familiar cord in him, one much stronger than the girl. He was slim and short with light auburn hair cut close to his head. His two companions were loudly rallying their small crowd, bouncing on their toes as they taught different cheers, but he was solid and silent, shoulders straight, feet shoulder width apart. He had no freckles, or not any that Killian could see from a distance, but his skin was sun kissed tan, his nose slightly pink. There was a feather tucked behind his ear, some kind of book tucked under one of his arms, and on closer inspection (which meant Killian squinted a bunch and wobbled forward a couple of steps) the feather behind his ear was actually a quill.

“I think he’s supposed to be a scribe,” the teenager said suddenly, startling Killian. He jumped a little bit, which brought a small bright grin upon her lips. Killian blinked at her for a moment, confused as to what she meant, until she gestured toward the man he had been staring at, shoulders hunching shyly. “You were, uh, staring? I think he’s supposed to be a scribe.”

“Oh. Right, the book and the feather pen thing-“

“Quill,” the girl interjecting, grinning again. “They’re called quills.”

“Right,” Killian repeated. He knew that, he honest to God did, but there was something scrambling his brain, something tugging at his memory. He glanced over at the familiar feeling guy for a moment, but before he could decide if he was going to walk over to the “good” side and sit down or not the girl caught his attention again. She scooted over on the bench, tapping the metal with her index finger as she did so.

“Wanna sit?”

He was twenty years old and she was a teenager. This was kinda on the edge of creepy. But she felt familiar, like he’d met her in passing before. It felt sort of like the time he had met someone from his elementary school in the grocery store and how he had walked by, utterly confused, until the boy piped up that he had been three grades ahead and had saved him from bullies once. 

“Sure you don’t mind,” Killian asked, just to make sure. “Don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“You’re fine,” the girl promised, shoulders relaxing as he took a seat beside her. “I’m Sigrid,” she said.

Killian felt his eyebrows rise up. “That’s a weird name,” he blurted out, before he could think better of it. The girl’s quirked smile fell a little bit and he rushed to continue, waving his hands around. “No, no, wait; my name’s Killian, so I’m weird too!”

Almost immediately the smile crept back. “I’ve never met anyone named Killian,” Sigrid said. Killian couldn’t help but grin back, slouching a little against the bench above them as he did so. 

“Ditto, Sigrid.”

“Oi you two,” someone snapped, startling both of them into jumping a little. There was a rather frightening looking woman standing in front of them in a black and green blouse and pants combination. There was a sword strapped to her belt and at least two daggers on her person, one in her boot and the other on her opposite hip from the sword. She was scowling at Sigrid, wrinkles appearing on her forehead like heavy duty cartoon shading, and underneath such a look Sigrid began to shrink back with wide eyes. 

“No lollygagging,” the huntress (if that what she was; if not Killian had no idea) snapped. “It’s cheer learning time.”

“Cheer learning time,” Killian repeated, drawing the woman’s fierce attention off the teenager and onto him. He almost regretted it because he’d never met a woman this terrifying in his life, but at least Sigrid wasn’t the highlight of the woman’s apparent fury. “What kind of cheers.”

“What _kind_ of cheers? What kind of cheers do you think, dumbo? Team rallying cheers!”

Before Killian could reiterate that he _knew that_ and wanted to know what kind of _team rallying cheers_ the blasted woman wanted someone else popped up in front of them, almost as if from thin air. Sigrid jumped again, but Killian was the one to swallow back a small shriek. 

“Oh, Lobelia, go back to bothering the goodies,” the woman said, grinning widely as if she wasn’t terrified the sword wielding woman would kill her. She certainly looked like she was heavily considering the matter, but after making a gruff _bah_ noise in the back of her throat the huntress woman whirled around and stalked toward the “good” side of the field. The poor costumed people on that side scattered before her, including the book wielding scribe-guy, whose head was turned as if he had been staring at Killian. Killian got distracted for a second, because it really did seem like he should know the guy, but then something was thrust in his direction, calling his attention back to their side of the field. 

“Sorry about that,” the new woman said. She was holding two tiny flags out to them, both of them made of rough black cotton. They were kind of cute and Killian accepted his slowly. Sigrid waved hers around in her lap for a second, a small pleased smile curving her lips as she stared at it. The woman continued cheerfully, more flags dangling from her finger lazily. “Lobelia is a great fighter, but awful people person. But when Morgana says ‘go entertain the crowd’, well, what can you do?”

Silence hung for a moment until Killian realized she was waiting for him to answer that. “Uh,” he said, caught off guard. “I guess you entertain the crowd?”

“Exactly,” the woman agreed. “I’m Esmeralda. If Lobelia comes a’snappin’ again just give me a shout.” Then the woman struck a rather odd half bow, half curtsey and flounced away, handing out flags to the rest of the crowd gathered at the “evil” side. 

“Is she dressed as a gypsy,” Sigrid wondered, sounding confused. 

“I think so,” Killian agreed. In deed the woman seemed to fit the part, with a white blouse, a black corset, and a green skirt hanging around her otherwise bare legs, a belt of gold coins clinking against each other as she walked. Her hair was also tangled up in a mass of dark curls and beads, so that even when she didn’t take a step there was a small clink as her hair blew in the breeze. Sigrid gave a soft giggle then, her lips curving up into a full blown smile, and together they fell silent, content to wait until the entertainment started.

Lobelia returned shortly after they fell silent to teach the crowd the team rallying cheers she had spoken of earlier. Esmeralda appeared as well to play keeper to the vicious woman, which made Killian feel a little bit better. He added his voice to the cheers, even though he was terrible at these kinds of things, and found himself swept up in the excitement of the thing in no time.

“Now,” Esmeralda was saying, “when the black team comes into the court, what do we do?”

“We cheer,” someone shouted. Lobelia rewarded them with a chilling smile.

Esmeralda beamed. “Yes! And when the white team comes on the court?”

Almost as one the crowd boo’d, though it was kind of pathetic and limp. Lobelia cleared her throat, scowling at the crowd as if she could terrify them into following her wishes. Without a second thought the crowd found their vicious nature, putting more effort into their _boo_ noises as if they truly despised the other team. Killian felt a little bad, but Sigrid apparently had to such qualms. Beside him she threw herself into the noise, cupping her hands around her mouth and scrunching her nose as she boo’d the other side of the field. Her enthusiasm made him grin. 

“That’s more like it,” Esmeralda cheered. “And that’s about all you need to learn, so we’re good I think-“

Someone in the crowd spoke up again, calling out, “what about the Lady of the Lake?”

Esmeralda and Lobelia blinked and shared a confused looked. “What?”

“Well,” the person said, their voice familiar, too familiar. “This is the tale of King Arthur, correct? I suppose you have the Lady of the Lake present?”

Lobelia’s eyes narrowed momentarily before she growled out something that was most likely a swear. “It would be you,” she grumbled, glowering at someone Killian couldn’t see due to the position of the teenager beside him. Quietly he tried to slink into the bench and appear as if he wasn’t there, a self conscious feeling filling him slightly. Lobelia continued on as Sigrid gave him an odd look. “Shouldn’t you be on the goodie side, you old hack?”

“I decided to pick a different view,” his professor, Mr. Williams said. Killian could hear the mirth in his voice clear as day, could picture the quirked little grin without issue. “The Lady in the Lake,” the man prompted as the other woman scowled.

“Golf clap,” Esmeralda said, out of the blue. “When the Lady of the Lake appears we golf clap. Agreed?”

“Sounds good to me,” Mr. Williams agreed. 

“Alright everyone,” Esmeralda called. “Let’s practice. Black team!” The crowd cheered, Sigrid squeaking out a startling little scream of glee beside him. “White team!” Across the field the “good” side cheered. Lobelia whirled around with a scowl to intimidate them while their side of the field boo’d as hard as they could. Esmeralda continued as if they had not been interrupted. “Lady of the Lake,” she shrieked excitedly and as a sharp contrast to the earlier noise everyone quietly put their hands together in a wide but soft round of golf claps. Like a proud mother Esmeralda beamed at them all, blowing kisses as she showered them with praise. Then, almost as if summoned by the noise, trumpets sounded from the direction of the area with the knights’ horses.

“Here we go,” the costumed people on the chess board said. “Show time!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur and bernard aren't a really fair guess, since they aren't described in detail (and i don't think they talk at all) until chapter five. but if anyone' curious they're SUPPOSED to be aragorn and boromir. and of course, our bald scottish announcer??? give you a hint, it starts with a D! and idk ifi descried him well enough (they give him a name next chapter, if I remember my own writing well enough), but ten points to anyone who can guess the scribe! and I couldn't resist throwing in more hobbits, because I adore them so. and Sigrid, who stole my heart when I wasn't looking. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


	4. chapter four

Live chess was something of a cluster fuck. 

It was fun, don’t get Killian wrong; it was really, really fun. But occasionally it didn’t seem quite like the chess he knew. It wasn’t bad, though, honestly, he couldn’t reiterate that enough; live chess was the coolest thing he’d seen because of the way the characters interacted and moved and fought. The chess game ended in a board-wide brawl, much like the jousting match had, which the Lady of the Lake called to a cease-fire with a shout. She declared that the chess match would reconvene once the two sides had cooled off and learned to control themselves. Then she strode off the field, her little fairies chasing at her heels, and the crowd golf clapped her away. After that it was a mess of people standing and the announcer declaring that the chess match would continue at two o’clock if anyone would like to join them. 

Killian stood up almost before the announcer had begun speaking, glancing over to where Mr. Williams’ voice had come from. Sure enough his professor was sitting there, lips quirked in a cheerful little grin. He wasn’t really wearing what Killian assumed was the usual renn faire get up, but it suited him. He was wearing a bright pair of red pants that cut off just after his knees, a white shirt, and a yellow vest with shiny brass buttons. He also, from what Killian could tell, wasn’t wearing shoes. 

“What the fuck,” Killian whispered, because instead of seeming really, really weird, like it should have been, Mr. Williams looked oddly right. Sigrid, who had thrown herself into the excitement of the chess match with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm, blinked up at Killian like he was nuts, which probably wasn’t far off from the truth. At least he wasn’t still nagged by that awful feeling like he was going to burst out of his skin. 

“What’s wrong,” Sigrid asked, going to twist around to look the way he was. He grabbed her without thinking, hauling her up before she could make eye-contact with his professor. For a minute he completely forgot that this was a complete stranger he was dragging around, which was so dumb, she was underage, what was wrong with him, but without a second thought he hauled her up and dragged her away, darting into the small crowd milling around. He wasn’t sure if Mr. Williams had seen them, but no one shouted his name at his back, so he ran until they had passed all the stalls with food, only stopping when Sigrid dug in her heels and pulled him to a rough stop.

“You do remember I don’t actually know you, right?”

“Um,” Killian said. “Sort of?”

Seemingly despite herself Sigrid’s lip curved into a smile. She rolled her eyes at him and shrugged her shoulders, glancing around curiously at the aisle of stalls in front of them. “I guess if you’re done dragging me around like a ragdoll I should probably go find my mom,” she muttered. Killian personally thought she seemed more interested in studying what was in each of the stalls, but he wasn’t going to mention that if she wasn’t. She glanced down the aisle in front of her and took a step forward. 

Killian honest to god didn’t mean to step forward with her. But he knew her, he could swear it. Something in him twisted at the idea of letting her walk alone, when anything could happen to her. Sigrid looked at him, surprise obvious in her expression, but before she could object he shrugged at her and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Look,” he said, fidgeting a little. “I don’t feel alright letting some kid wander around by themselves. I mean, there could be something dangerous around!”

“Something dangerous,” she repeated, eyebrows rising toward her hairline. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Orcs,” Killian blurted out. “There could be orcs. So let me stick around until we find your mom and then I’ll make myself scarce.”

Sigrid burst into laughter, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Make yourself scarce,” she repeated skeptically, still giggling. “I honestly don’t know which part of that sentence was worse; that, the orcs, or the ‘kid’ comment.” Her nose wrinkled like a rabbit’s when she laughed and her freckles stood out on her cheeks like fireworks in the sky. Killian felt himself grinning back at her, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.

“If it makes you feel better I have a very good explanation for why I ran away from the chess board,” he offered. He didn’t know why he did it, but he had to. There was something about her, something about the look in her eye and the way she smiled. Killian couldn’t shake the feeling, but before he could dwell on it too much Sigrid perked up, interest obvious.

“You better have a good reason; you nearly took my arm off when you grabbed me,” she told him, wandering forward slowly. Once he joined her, step for step, she picked up the pace a little bit, drifting closer to some of the stalls as they passed them. Her eyes wandered around, but Killian got the feeling she was paying more attention to him than she seemed to be. 

So Killian told her about Mr. Williams and the flyer and the way he didn’t want to talk to his teacher just yet. He almost mentioned the familiar tug he felt towards strangers, but just as he opened his mouth to jump into that mess they rounded a corner and the teenager spotted her mother standing at the glass blower’s stall. Sigrid made a face, muttered something that sounded a lot like _we don’t need any more ridiculous glass animals, dear lord_ before giving him a lopsided smile.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” Sigrid said, already turning to go towards her mother. She twisted around, walking backward for a few steps as she gave him a wide sunflower bright smile. “I hope you’re able to evade your teacher, though,” she added. Her mother twitched slightly at the sound of her daughter’s voice, calling _Siggy_ excitedly over her shoulder. The teenager grimaced, nose scrunching again, and called back, “One sec, mom,” as she offered Killian a wave.

“See you at the next chess match,” he asked, raising his voice slightly. He was a grown adult (technically) and the thought of wandering around the faire alone shouldn’t have suddenly bothered him, but it did. Killian had been alone most of his life, with few close friends, so it was common familiar ground. Several times throughout his life he had even declared that he liked it better that way, but something about the immediate connection with the teenager left him aching for more human contact. 

“I’ll definitely try,” the teenager promised. “Bye Killian!”

“Killian,” he heard her mother say, finally turning. “Who’s Killian?”

Not wanting to be called out as a giant creep (even though he sort of was) Killian darted further down the aisle, skipping past an elderly couple who were strolling peacefully down the dirt path. Once he was sure he was out of sight of Sigrid’s mother he slowed down, shoving his hands in his pockets once more. The stalls around him didn’t interest him that much, so he wandered aimlessly until something caught his eye. However that didn’t happened until he had almost reached the end of the aisle, his interest peeking finally at the sight of a weapons stall. Unlike the other stalls around, the weapons stall was completely shaded inside, the tent itself a dark material, the front flaps pulled up to the sides to let people in. Killian could already see quite the range of weapons available from the outside, but he wandered in nonetheless, his interest in medieval weaponry rearing its head.

The stall keeper was conversing with someone off to the side, so Killian was left alone to glance over the items around at ease. There were several other people in the stall with him, all of them younger, all of them with the reckless gleeful gleam of youth bright in their eyes. Two teenagers even younger than Sigrid were gushing excitedly over the wall of katanas off to the right side of the stall, but it was the left side that drew Killian’s attention, past the movie replicas and the anime pieces positioned so that they caught the dim light nicely. 

The set of blades that had drawn his eye were wide, stout blades, the kind you didn’t see in movies and TV shows. It was a set of nearly ten blades, all of which had some geometric quirk or another to mark it as completely different from its companions. Among the blades were a few flat-head axes, one of which seemed to be some kind of odd triangle that Killian had never seen in any kind of textbook or painting. But there were two blades among the batch that caught his eye the most, despite the fact that they were one of the simpler designs of the batch. They were short swords, Killian realized, the kind that had been wielded in each hand. The design was a little bit odd, because usually one of the blades would have been shorter and slimmer than the other, but as far as Killian could tell they looked to be the same size and shape. They were like slanted rectangles, with one tiny point ending at the far end of the blade while the rest sloped down into a more familiar sword point. There was also a strange triangular point in the center of the blade, which was mimicked in the designs dug into the metal, looking like a little hook that would bite into the skin of the thing that was being fought off. Killian couldn’t image the statue of the person wielding the weapon, how strong they would need to be, how deft with both blades to make up for the lack of shield. 

“Like those, do you,” someone asked, almost in Killian’s ear. He muffled a startled yelp for the second time that day, whirling to face the stall keeper, who had, at some point during Killian’s drool fest, ended his conversation with the other person and wandered over toward him. Killian meant to say something, something about the craftsman ship, something about the odd design of the blades, but the same kind of familiarity that had struck him again and again over the course of the day swamped him then, nearly knocking him off his feet. 

“You okay there, lad,” the stall keeper asked. As he frowned wrinkles appeared on his brow, causing deep lines to echo his dark eyebrows. His hair was past his shoulders, wavy and dark with a few silver streaks visible here and there, tied loosely back with something that looked like a thick piece of brown cord. His beard was the same dark color as his hair, with just a hint of silver and grey speckled through, trimmed close to his jaw so that he looked somehow clean and wild at the same time. The man was wearing a shirt that had probably once been white but due to something Killian heavily suspected was soot and sweat had turned almost grey, its long sleeves rolled up to his biceps. He was the biggest man Killian had ever seen, or maybe it was just the man had such a powerful presence. Killian felt small, like a child standing in front of a statue, and he knew without a way to stop it that his mouth was hanging open a little bit as the breath vanished from his body. He knew this man. He knew this man with his long dark hair and his solemn blue eyes, but how? 

“Lad,” the man repeated. There was some emotion in his face, some glint in his eyes that Killian couldn’t piece together. It reminded him of the expression Bo had worn as he mentioned orcs, similar but still different. Killian swallowed and nodded, wrestling his emotions under control as he tried to make himself respond verbally.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just, uh- It’s a little hot out.”

The man didn’t seem convinced at first, but he seemed to let the matter slide reluctantly. “It is very hot,” he agreed, glancing at the ceiling of the tent as if he could see through it and into the sky. He scowled a little bit, as if the weather offended him, before snorting quietly to himself. “I can’t stand the heat myself, but I’ve come to accept that sunny, warm days are better than rainy, cold days. Or at least that is what I have been told, again and again.”

“You’d rather it be cold?” Killian didn’t really like the cold, but he didn’t dislike it either. His favorite time of the year had been spring, back up north when the cool weather slid away slowly. Down south where he lived now it was cold one day and then hot the next, hardly any in between. The big man shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips almost reluctantly. 

“Let’s just say when I fell in love the topic of our favorite weather wasn’t high upon my concerns,” the man said, eyes twinkling as if he was telling a joke. Killian didn’t see what was so amusing but he felt himself smiling anyway, suddenly relieved. The man looked as if he could turn grim and depressive at a moment’s notice, so the thought that he had someone to love and keep him cheery was a comfort.

_Christ_ , Killian thought, _now I’m taking comfort in strangers’ love lives. It’s probably time to turn around and go back to the dorms so I can pack up, because this place is obviously making me crazy._

“Did you really make all this,” Killian asked, sort of desperate to distract himself. The bearded man hummed quietly, nodding as he did so. Killian felt a little bit awed, twisting to look at every corner of the room so that he could try and wrap his mind around that. “Do you make all kinds of weapons or just blades?”

Something glittered in the man’s eyes, something Killian’s couldn’t pin down. “I’ve been known to whittle out a bow or two sometimes, though I often leave that to the archer’s themselves. But blades are my specialty.” The man paused, seeming to weigh something in his mind. The next time he spoke his voice was thick, some double meaning behind the words that Killian could not catch. “Are you any good with a bow, lad?”

Killian shook his head and the strange look in the man’s eyes dimmed a little bit, his mouth turning down almost as if in disappointment. “I’ve never had the chance,” he explained, shrugging his shoulders. Suddenly the man brightened, blinking rapidly, fingers twitching as if he was trying to contain his excitement. 

“There’s a few targets set up just around the corner,” the man said, pointing out of his tent and toward the dirt path that veered to the right. “There are people there who would be more than happy to let you give it a shot.”

“Pun intended,” Killian asked, grinning suddenly. The man frowned for a second before groaning, face twisting into a grimace. Killian laughed a little bit at the man’s reaction to his own words, watching as the man ran a hand over his hair, frowning and gruff. 

“Thomas,” someone called out. The man who had been announcing the jousting match stuck his head in through the back flaps of the tent. He scanned the tent with his eyes, spotting them almost immediately. He started to say something else, something that started with, “Oliver says he-“ before he cut off his own words abruptly, as if he was choking. His eyes went wide and his mouth snapped shut. With a muttered curse the big man disappeared back behind the tent flaps, the clattering sound of something metal hitting something else metal echoing after him. 

Thomas, the stall keeper, sighed. “Excuse me,” he said, scowling at the back of the tent. He started to make his way around the tables laden with weapons, hands brushing along the metal as he moved, before drawing short and turning back. “Go check out the archery stalls,” he insisted. There was something compelling about the idea that gripped at Killian and he nodded, offering the stall keeper a little smile as he did so. “Good,” Thomas the stall keeper said. He turned and made his way out the back flaps then, shouting to someone named Darrel.

Killian assumed the Scottsman was Darrel, though Darrel wasn’t a very Scottish name to him, and left the tent, stealing a few more glances at the odd geometric blades as he did so. The sunlight was bright and warm against his skin, making him wish he could stay in the shaded tent for the rest of the afternoon. Despite that he wandered out anyway, walking the last twenty feet of the stall aisle with his hands in his pockets, before coming to the T in the dirt path. In front of him was a building, bathroom available on the side, and to the left seemed to be another aisle that lead back toward the food stalls and jousting ring. Past that there was another aisle that stretched out along the top of the T, passing by some enclosure that seemed to have a small elephant and camels for people to ride on. And to his right was the archery. 

Killian studied the set up as he drew closer. There were a line of people, kids mostly, holding bows as if they were live things, wiggling about in their hands. Next to them were instructors, gesturing and teaching the kids as best they could. Past them were the dummies the kids were aiming at, propped up human shaped things in tied together armor, and among the dummies were a few actual people, coated head to toe in armor, each of them holding a shield and calling out to the kids who shot at them. 

It was five dollars for ten arrows and Killian paid without a second thought. He was handed the ten arrows, all of them with flat padded ends, and a bow his size, which he took carefully. The woman sitting behind the table smiled at him as he ran his fingers over the bow and asked him the question of the day again. 

“You ever shot a bow, love?”

“Nah,” he said, plucking the string lightly. “Never had the chance.”

“Well now you do,” she said cheerfully. She pointed at a shaggy haired red-headed man who was standing without a child to instruct, her smile kind. “Enjoy!”

Killian had had a friend in high school who had been ridiculous at the drums. She’d always been tapping away at something, fingers against the desktop, foot against the floor, pencil against her leg; the rhythm never stopped with her. She’d been fantastic at it from the get go apparently, having picked up the drumsticks and run with it to her middle school band director’s delight. She’d tried to describe how it felt to him once after he’d asked about her lightning quick love for the drums.

“It was like I had been looking for the drums all my life,” she had said. She had been tapping against his knee, both of them curled under an oak tree behind the gym as they skipped calculus. “Like… Like I had been born with a pair of drumsticks in my hand and had them taken away and I was looking to find them again. I don’t know, Killian; I just held them and knew.”

Killian thought of her then, holding that bow as he walked over to stand next to the big red-headed man. The man talked, but Killian couldn’t make himself listen, some kind of whistling sound filling his ears. One of the armor wearing, shield toting men out among the dummies was staring at him, angling himself so that Killian could shoot at him if he wanted. The man tapped his shield with one finger, the metal of his gauntlet rapping loudly against the wooden shield in the direct center of the crest painted there.

“Alright lad,” the man said. “Give it a try.”

Killian picked up the bow, tucked an arrow between his fingers, and notched it. The string drew back between his fingers and he angled his elbow up, eyes completely focused on the man in front of him with the shield. His heart pounded, the sound loud in his ears, and after taking a long, deep breath Killian let go of the string.

The arrow hit the center of the crest and fell to the ground with a dull thud. The man jerked as if surprised, his actions mirroring Killian’s as he flinched. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on his head, chills rushing down his spine as everything came back to him. The man dropped his shield and yanked off his helmet, his blond hair falling loose around his shoulders. He had dark eyes, the same blue as sapphire, and the beginnings of a beard along the hard line of his jaw. Killian’s breath caught, his world flipping upside down.

“Kili,” Fili said. The next thing he knew his brother, blond and whole and human, was rushing across the distance between them, flinging himself over the barrier to wrap his armored arms around Killian’s shoulders, and then suddenly Kili was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the weapons stall at our faire is my favorite thing. so many cool things??? idk. but this wraps up this part! now, we move on to kili's darlin'. 
> 
> (if no one's caught on now, i'm doing this all on sunday and saving them until later in the week to post. so if my notes seem a little empty headed, it might be the bathroom cleaner from my three house procrastination on getting this edited. sorry!)
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! :)


	5. chapter five

There was a line of cars leading into the parking lot, dirt and torn up grass making up a field up against the tree line. There were cops everywhere, directing the traffic into the parking lot, waving her through. She gunned her engine and cruised forward slowly, the sun an almost unbearable heat against the leather of her jacket. A female cop gave her a nod as she drifted by and Tara felt her lips pull into a smile absentmindedly as she followed her gesturing directions. Another cop pointed her at a spot beside a silver mini-van and as she cut the engine and swung off her motorcycle with practiced ease another blue Sedan pulled in on her other side. She peeled her jacket off of her arms before she took off the helmet, the heat overpowering without a breeze. It was early February still, but this part of the country it already felt like late spring, all sunshine and warmth. Her braid of hair swung down her back, freed from its previous coiled position at the base of her skull, which released some of the built up tension from the ride. She stood still for a moment, eyes tracking the people wandering across the field-turned-parking lot toward the tree line. The she stuffed her jacket in the compartment on the back of her motorcycle and locked her helmet in its place, fingertips trailing over the silver and green paint job before she turned and walked away. 

The sight of the long, crazy lines almost made her regret the decision to come check out the fair, but she had wasted just under half a tank of gas to get all the way here and it was such a gorgeous day. She bit her lip as she tried to figure out the system of the lines, not quite understanding what was going on. There was a ticket booth, eight stalls open, and a short line leading from them back toward the trees, but then there was a break in the line about ten feet long before the lines seemed to start again. She couldn’t see any signs around stating which of the further back signs where the lines randomly picked up again.

“Confused, miss,” someone asked, just beside her shoulder. She jumped a little bit, turning to find a tall broad shouldered man with a dark mustache and a beard who had an odd lopsided hat tipped upon his head. 

“Yes actually,” she said. This man seemed familiar to her, like a character from a book seen on the television; like someone else’s idea of a person she once knew. It was a feeling she was more than used to, so she just shrugged it off with a roll of her shoulders and smiled. He was in period clothing, so she assumed he was one of the renn faire attendants. “Can you point me at the cash line, please?”

“Right there, miss,” he said, gesturing grandly at the right most mess of a queue. She nodded her thanks and turned to join the line, but something about him pulled at her. She paused, biting her lip before blurting out her question.

“Do they have archery here,” she asked. The man had already been turning away, but at her question he paused. When he turned back to look at her an odd look crossed his face, one she couldn’t place. He tipped his head to one side, absently reaching up to tug at one side of his moustache as he stared at her. 

“Yes we do,” he said after a moment. “Furthest corner of the fairgrounds from here, on the right. Just go past the food stalls and the shop aisles and you’ll get to it easily.” He paused then, a crooked little smile tugging at his lips. “Have you ever shot an arrow from a bow before, lass?”

Something within her bristled at his tone. “Yes,” she said, snapping the word a little harshly. “I was in the archery club at my high school.”

The man grinned widely, genuine pleasure sparking at his eyes. They were a dark color, rich brown and warm against all odds. “Then do ol’ Bo a favor, will ‘ya? Find a man called Hadley out there and knock an arrow against his skull for me, won’t ‘cha?”

“Hadley,” Tara repeated quietly. The name brought about that familiar feeling again. She swallowed it back and quirked an eyebrow instead. “Why should I knock an arrow into this man’s head for you? What has he done?”

The man, Bo apparently, whipped off his hat and gestured to a hole in the side of it. Tara recognized it as an arrow hole. She felt herself start to grin before she could really understand why. Bo, spotting her amusement, scoffed darkly in the back of his throat, nose scrunching up like a rabbit’s as he shoved the hat back on his head. 

“He shot an arrow through my hat,” Bo grumbled, “and I’d return the favor, trust me I would, but I can’t wield a bow worth a damn. Axe is more my sport, I admit, so do an old man a favor and knock him around for me a bit?”

Something within her jolted, electric sparks on dry leaves, and she burned inside. “Of course,” she said, tossing her braid over her shoulder and grinning widely, recklessly. “What does this Hadley look like?” 

“Tall as a couple of sticks taped together, with a blond braid nearly as long as yours. But his most defining feature?” He leaned forward, as if he was imparting a secret, an act which Tara mimicked. “He’s got a hooked nose and beady little eyes, like a creature from the bottom of a tar pit in a horror movie.”

Tara didn’t really believe that was true, but she laughed nonetheless. She promised she’d knock an arrow into the man’s helmet if she saw him around the archery arena and made her way to the back of the line. The cash line was shorter than the credit card line, but not by much. She spent the time admiring the outfits of the other attendants, content to let their excitement wash over her without fuss. She paid for her ticket and made her way past the ticket voucher people, costumed and polite as they were, and then set off to follow the crowd toward the rest of the event. She passed the boxed off area that the vendor’s cars sat in, catching glimpses of trailers and such parked side by side. There was a small blond man coming out of that area, dressed in a white poet shirt and a pair of breeches made to look like deerskin. His hair was curly, freckles danced upon his cheeks, and his expression was quite cross. He held a phone up to his ear, grumbling under his breath as the voice on the other end rattled on.

“I’m telling you, it’s _not there_ ,” the man insisted, marching past her. She stepped aside and he gave her an absent smile, waving apologetically to the phone. “No, no, no,” he snapped, almost immediately. “It’s. Not. There. …No, I don’t care where you put it; one of the boys must have moved it, because it’s not there. Oi, don’t raise your voice at me, mister, they’re _your kin_. Oh that’s bollocks and you know it, they’re kin and that’s that. But when I get my hands on those long haired menaces I swear I’ll-“

The blond man disappeared into the crowd, marching away, phone still head firmly to his ear. Tara felt her stomach roll and her chest ached with loss. She found herself trying to catch glimpses of the man once more before she dragged her emotions back under control. Just because she didn’t have an eventful life full of _kin_ didn’t mean she could creep on others’, she reminded herself pointedly. She’d driven off a roommate before with her nosey questions about the girl’s family life, curious and desperate to live vicariously through anyone else. She couldn’t do that now, surrounded by strangers. The strangers, however, made it so very, very easy.

“Oh god, I wonder what those two have done,” a girl said nearby. Tara’s eyes were drawn to her frame, tall and curvy with dark hair and bright blue eyes. She was dressed in some kind of periwinkle dress with a white top underneath, the blue straps reaching around her neck while the white sleeves hung off her shoulders and her hair was braided in a sort of messy French braid that either told the tale of a distracted/inexperienced braider or of a romp in the back of a parked car.

There was a younger girl with the brunette, whose hair was a tad lighter, and then a boy between their ages with dark unruly hair. Both made faces at the girl’s statement, which she laughed off, shrugging her shoulders. 

“Come on, you two,” the girl said, eyes practically sparkling. “I want to go see what they’ve done.”

“I could be at home playing PS3,” the boy grumbled, dragging a hand through his hair. He was in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, though the t-shirt did have a dragon on it.

“Father doesn’t like it when we hang out with them,” the little girl pointed out. She was wearing a kind of fluffy sleeved shirt and a skirt, but they were modern cut. It was a cute outfit, though. The older girl shot her an unamused look before rolling her shoulders and flicking the wisps of her hair that had already escaped her braid out of her face.

“Oh hush,” she told the two children. “They’re my friends and since I am twenty-one now I believe I’m allowed to hang out with whom I wish.”

“Father still won’t like it,” the little girl said pointedly. 

“Father can suck it, Tilda,” the older girl said. “Right, Ben?”

“Sigrid,” the boy groaned, but he didn’t finish his sentence. He seemed to spot Tara lingering nearby, eavesdropping like a creep, but his eyes flicked over her and then back to his sister without pausing. “Do whatever you like,” he said eventually. “Go visit your boyfriend or whatever. I’m going to go see Oliver and see when the live chess starts.” Then, without another word, the boy turned and left.

The little girl, Tilda, glanced after him nervously. Sigrid laughed loudly, a glimmer in her eyes, before shooing her forward. 

“Go on,” she said, smirking. “Go see _Oliver_.”

The little girl, fourteen or fifteen at the oldest, turned bright red at the name. “Fine,” she snapped, whirling around. “Have fun with _Phillip_ ,” she called back in the same half teasing, half mocking voice her sister had used. Both children disappeared into the crowd and when Tara looked back the older girl was gone as well. 

Feeling a bit like a creep peeking in people’s house windows Tara started to move forward in the crowd once more. A breeze picked up out of nowhere, giving her a small relief from the heat. There was still a coil of emotions at the bottom of her stomach, stirred up by the conversation of the three strangers, but Tara pushed it away viciously. 

Something caught Tara’s eye as she made her way through the crowd. There was an area about the size of a kid’s soccer field fenced off and enclosed on two sides by rows of bleachers. From what she could just barely see and the snatches of lines she could mostly hear from the announcer there was some kind of show going on at the moment. Curious Tara wandered closer, slipping through the bodies between her and the metal seats with ease. Once she was there she blinked at the field before feeling her lips pull into a small, simple smile.

It was a horse show, two tall broad shouldered men in period clothing on two gorgeous, strong beasts. The announcer was an older man with a white beard almost down to his belly who wore Scottish attire and stood proudly in the middle of the field. Tara glanced away only long enough to find an empty seat in the bleachers to sit on before redirecting her attention to the men trotting around the announcer.

One of the men, who rode upon a white horse with red designs along its saddle, had dark blond hair with two tiny braids catching his bangs and keeping them away from his face. His expression was one of complete relaxed peace, though his mouth curled up into a broad grin as he stood in his saddle at the announcer’s prodding and sped his horse up into a proper canter. The other man had hair a few shades lighter than his companion and though his was not as long it still flew out behind him as he turned to keep the darker haired man in sight. There was one large braid that had gathered the top layer of the second man’s hair, most likely to keep it out of his face, and when the first man laughed at something the announcer said the other smiled, small and private. He didn’t have a beard, but a strong jaw and his skin was sun-worn with freckles here and there. (Tara had always had excellent vision. She could read signs from distances that had always baffled her friends. She had always called it her “useless superpower” and shrugged her shoulders.)

It wasn’t long until the show grew to a close. The crowd, small though it was, gave the pair a generous applause before they began to disperse. Tara watched them go, smiling slightly when the first man was able to pull another small smile out of his companion. The announcer wandered behind them slowly, careful not to get too close to the horses. His smile was kindly and the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes crinkled as he waved at a child in the crowd.

Tara felt something inside her ache sharply at the sight of the white haired man. She closed her eyes and considered just going home, since she usually avoided the places that brought out this feeling within her, but she had spent the fifteen dollars to get in and driving for three hours to get back to her empty dorm did not suit her either. So she squared her shoulders and made her way out of the bleachers and into the rest of the faire. 

She passed many interesting stalls as the hours dwindled by. On one of the aisles of stalls there was a stall full of leather work and a stall full of wooden children’s toys, both of which were diagonal to the stall with the little dragon-like creatures that everyone was flocking to. Tara peeked in the stalls as she strolled by, but there wasn’t much that could draw her into one. The armory type stall was tempting, she had to admit, but then she saw the short blond man in there leaning against a tall, broad shouldered man with salt and pepper streaked black hair and she turned away instead. The next aisle held children’s games, candle stalls, perfume shops, clothing, masquerade masks, puppets, and even a side venue building where a magician was holding up a rabbit above his head. It seemed to take years to her to reach the back of the faire, though it was mostly her fault, since she did detour over by the maypole, past the camel and elephant riders before heading to the right-hand corner. Once she did, however, it was not hard to spot the archery setup they have going on. Tara spent a few seconds speaking with the people who passed her a bow and some blunt-tipped arrows, their smiles wide, before she was free to line up with the kids in front of the targets and armored people.

“Oi,” she called out, feeling alive. She always felt this way with a bow in her hand; it had been the only way she had gotten through the loneliness that had plagued her most of her life. Heads swiveled in her direction and she smiled, rolling her shoulders back and cracking her neck sharply.

“Which one of you goes by the name Hadley?” 

A man in a pointed helm raised his hand, confusion obvious in the line of his shoulders. “I am, miss,” he called. He was partially hidden behind one of the dummies set up about ten feet away from the fence, but his shoulders and head were visible enough. Tara smiled widely and notched the blunted arrow against the bowstring.

“It’s nice to meet you, Hadley,” she called out. “My name’s Tara and I have a present for you from a man named Old Bo.” Then, without a second to let the man react, she lifted the bow in front of her, pulled back the arrow, adjusted her elbow quickly and released. The arrow shot through the air with a little more force than strictly necessary, smacking against her target’s helm with a loud, ringing _thunk_.

The crowd around her, mostly made up of children and renn faire workers, erupted into sound. The children laughed loudly as Hadley staggered back a few steps, startled, while the renn faire workers remarked about her aim and the speed of her draw. A tall dark haired man standing a little to her left laughed loudly, throwing his head back to show the strong column of his neck. This man was gorgeous, she had to admit, with his wild dark hair and scruff, but his eyes were wrong, she thought distantly. She didn’t know how, but they were wrong.

“Hadley, what in the world did you do to Old Bo now,” the man remarked, grinning widely. Then he turned to her, raising an eyebrow at her. “And where did he find such a talented, beautiful knight to fight for him, hm?”

Someone behind them sighed loudly, a gusty sound of amusement. “Oh Arthur,” someone said, drawing the man’s attention from her. “You are so, so very lucky Arryn puts up with you.”

“Puts up with me,” Arthur repeated. His expression went from scandalized to dreamy in less time than it took to blink and Tara’s chest constricted with envy for the way he spoke. “Arryn is a goddess and she no more puts up with me than she does with you, my friend. She loves me and I love her, simple as that.”

“Yes, well, she might not love you anymore if you’re late to the show,” another man called out. The first man, Arthur, leant over the fence and peered around her, making her turn curiously. Behind her was a blond man with hair that barely reached his jawline and a neatly trimmed beard that was hardly more than a few days of scruff. The man was dressed in a suit of armor that had to be hell to move in, with accents of red and gold in the material under his suit of metal.

“As a mutual friend would have said, I am never late; I arrive precisely when I mean to.”

“Well you better mean to arrive in the tent within the next few minutes or you won’t have time to put on your armor,” the man laughed. Arthur brushed past, muttering something about her excellent aim as he did, and then clasped the blond man on the shoulder jovially. 

“Lead the way, Bernard, brother,” Arthur said, and with that they made their way away.

Tara frowned slightly, eyes trailing after them. “Is there a weapon demonstration,” she asked, turning back to glance at the renn faire volunteers behind her. Before one of them could answer her there was a clanking sound behind her. She turned around to find Hadley standing a few feet from the fence, off to the side to avoid the arrows the kids were still shooting at their targets. He pulled his helmet off, giving her a stiff sort of smile. It didn’t look like he was trying to be rude, but more like that was how he normally smiled at people. 

She had to admit, though, his nose was a little bit hookish and his eyes were just a tad bit beady. So maybe Old Bo hadn’t been exaggerating that much. She raised an eyebrow at him, leaning on the fence slightly as he opened his mouth.

“We leave the weapon’s demos to the SCA group,” he said faintly. “You can find them in between the food stalls and the shop stalls. Bernard and Arthur are off to get ready for the last jousting match of the day.”

“Jousting,” she repeated. “You guys do jousting?”

“Yep,” one of the other human targets called out. “It’s really interesting, you should go check it out! If you hurry you should still be able to get a seat somewhere good!”

Hadley pursed his lips, glancing back over his shoulder. “Yes, thank you, Norton,” he drawled, probably only a little sarcastic, though it was hard to tell. He turned back to her, ignoring the man who had shouted and the rude gesture he made at his back. There were several annoyed and scandalized shouts of _Norton, there are children!_ , which made Tara bite her lip on a grin. 

“Norton is correct,” Hadley said, shrugging a little bit. “The jousting match is pretty much the last event of the day and it will be packed to the brim, more than likely. If you’d like to get a good seat you’re going to have to hurry.”

“Thanks,” Tara said, shrugging. Jousting sounded interesting and her bike was parked over there, so it was on her way out… “I think I’ll head over there then.” She turned to go, lifting a hand to wave, but paused. She bit her lip and sighed, glancing back at the man who’s helmet was still off to find him staring at her. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Hadley’s eyes widened before he smiled, even smaller than quiet man in the horse show. “Don’t worry about me, my lady,” he murmured, eyes strange. “I’ve gotten worse injuries from much less pleasant looking assailants, trust me. It was an honor, miss…?”

Anyone else would have sounded mocking, but there was a strange sincerity in Hadley’s voice. Norton, who was identifiable from the way he crept closer, dark eyes and dark hair peeking out from under his helm, shifted, seemingly waiting for her name.

“Tara,” she said, loud enough for both to hear. “My name is Tara.”

“It’s nice to meet you, my lady Tara. I hope you enjoy the jousting match.”

Hadley’s eyes were dark and Tara felt a chill race down her spine. She swallowed, nodding before turning to give the bow and arrows back to the people at the table. The woman looked a little confused as she took the arrows, asking quietly if Tara was sure she didn’t want to shoot any more. But suddenly the idea of firing arrows at the blonde and dark haired men among the targets made her sick. Her skin felt too tight and her chest hurt, so she just shook her head, wishing she had pulled on the hoodie in her bike compartment so that she could shove her hands in her pockets. The wind was picking up and that added to the chill that had gripped her turned the temperature into something that made her regret her jean shorts and t-shirt. She curled her arms over her stomach as she made her way back toward the aisles of stalls. She picked the furthest aisle, partially because she liked watching the children at the children’s game booths, but also partially because the older girl of the trio she had seen at the entrance – Sigrid if she recalled correctly – was standing in front of the weaponry stall with the curly blonde haired man and his big brute of what Tara could only assume was the weapon smith. She figured it was best to avoid the temptation of eavesdropping on their conversation, which fit nicely to her usual routine of avoiding the nagging, itching sensation of familiarity that pulled at her gut when she saw them together. 

She had dropped a class once because of that feeling. Taken it over the summer instead, with a different professor. It didn’t help that she got close enough to see the weapon smith’s smile, which was unfamiliar, and to see the gleam of his dark eyes, which were not unfamiliar. She probably looked a little silly, turning on her heel to walk down a different path, but she didn’t care. There were a few interesting stalls down the second aisle that she glanced at as she wandered, one in particular with two loud amusing men pressing designs into coins. They were very personalable, singing little bits of songs that fit the moment. “Tell me what you want, what you really really want-“ was something she had heard them sing earlier, but as she walked by this time she heard one of the men singing, “I like to smash it, smash it- I like to smash it, smash it- I like to smash it, smash it- you like to- _smash it_!” She recognized the song, lips curving in a little smile, before coming to a stop at the sight of two light haired men who were juggling in the middle of the path.

Neither were familiar to her, which was a blessing. Their features were so similar they had to be related, noses the same shape and eyes filled with the same spark of mirth. One was juggles balls while the other juggled boxes, their heads tipped up to keep an eye on what they were doing while they called out to each other happily.

“Heads up, Pip,” one shouted. He was wearing a yellow vest over a white shirt and one the bag at his hip was a stylistic design of a charging horse. He was slightly taller than his companion, who looked up, face twisting as the first man tossed his balls one by one into the air, arching them toward the one called Pip. The balls flew over the heads of the crowd, some who paused like Tara had to watch, and then landed without a hitch in Pip’s hands.

“Merry,” the other one whined, despite having caught them all with the ease others blinked and breathed with. He was wearing a blue tunic with a silver tree design on it, the cut altogether different from his companion. He paused from a moment, eyes tracking the objects he was juggling, mouth twisting as he realized what was in his hands. Tara did a quick count as well, coming up with six boxes, five balls, and-

“The apple’s new,” Pip commented, continuing to juggle it without a problem. Merry beamed at him, pulling on the suspenders over his yellow vest with a prideful little grin. 

“Swiped it from the big ol’ grumps packed lunch when his boys distracted him,” Merry explained. Pip whistled, impressed, eyes darting to look at something behind Tara. Tara glanced, leaning a little bit to match his line of sight, and found that she could see the edge of the weapons’ stall from where she stood. She wondered if the man they were referring to was the smith, but the thought was tugged away from her when Pip spoke.

“He’s going to be right upset when he finds it gone,” the juggling man said, grinning. Merry simply nodded sagely, neither of them looking bothered in the least.

“Mr. Williams won’t mind, though,” Pip continued. “Used to feed us treats all the time, remember?”

Both sighed blissfully, content expressions on their faces. Merry even smacks his lips, muttering something about tea cakes to wage war for, before he made a thoughtful expression, jaw stuck out a little bit, nose twitching faintly as he hummed.

“Still,” he said, drawing out the word. “Best not to linger about until we’re caught.”

“Right-o,” Pip agreed. Then, in a flurry of tossed about objects and bouncing curls, they were both suddenly gone. Tara bit her lip, blinking as if coming out of a trance, because while the men weren’t familiar their mirth and mischievous nature were. She sighed, a weight in her stomach that hadn’t been there before as she resumed her journey back to the bleachers in front of the fenced in area. The sun was at the edge of the trees as she walked, making it marginally colder than it had been before, which would have been a relief on any other day. She resented the trees a little, for stealing what time she would have left of the sunlight, which was an irrational feeling she had always harbored. Anything that blocked the sky from her was viewed with a less than favorable eye, which had frazzled the adults who had been forced to put up with her many fits as a child when she was told she couldn’t play outside. She had found during her travels and many lonely camping and hiking trips that she felt most familiar with forests, even if the trees’ leaves did sometimes block the sight of the sky, and that if there was a mountain peeking just from the trees her chest would clench and her eyes would burn with tears she couldn’t explain. 

She had actually been scouting out a possible camping and hiking trail when she had heard about the faire. She hadn’t meant to come at first, but then there was a sign on side of the road pointing out the parking for the event and she had made a u-turn at the next light, figuring a few more hours spent outside her empty dorm room would be good. She reflected on the pulling sensation in her gut that had made her turn around as the cheers ahead drew her attention, signally that she had spent too much time watching the jugglers and that jousting had started without her. She was a little disappointed, but she found a spot at the back corner of the fence where she could lean against the sun warmed metal and watch the show.

The announcer was a bald, tattooed man with a heavy Scottish accent who was shouting at the three knights on the ground, who were beginning to scuffle amongst themselves. When his shouting didn’t work he pulled out a gun, firing it loudly into the air, which made the crowd and the men jump. There was one in with a red accent on his armor, which she assumed was Bernard, as well as one with a green accent that she assumed was Arthur by the green tunic he had been wearing earlier. The third knight had a blue accent on his armor and Tara’s eyes wandered across the broad lines of his shoulders and the curve of his helmet with idle curiosity. 

“Oh, put your hands down, you great gob-less gits,” the man boomed, shoving the gun back in his belt. “I already shot my wad.”

The three knights went limp with relief, which drew a gusty round of giggles out of a nearby little girl. The show continued, the announcer slipping into a more formal and practiced round of speech as the knights retreated to their horsed, mounting with the help of assistants in matching colored outfits. There was a dark haired woman, gorgeous and pale, who handed the knight with the green accent his blunt lance with a sweet curl of a smile and Tara wondered as that familiar lurch flooded her if that was the Arryn that the men had mentioned earlier. She was certainly gorgeous enough to warrant anyone to make the face Arthur had. 

The red and blue knights faced off first. The crowds took up cheers in designated areas that she had apparently missed the arrangement of, shouting for Bernard and someone with a K-name that was lost as the mass of voices washed over her in a strange, distant way. Her eyes were drawn to the blue knight, watching with a kind of breathlessness she had never experienced before as he rode. He lost the jousting to the red knight by only a point, directing his horse off to the side so that the red and green knights could charge at one another instead. In the end Bernard won the jousting, raising his arms above his head as his section of the crowd cheered wildly.

“Alright,” the announcer said, “it is time for the other knights to go and congratulate the winner on his skills in combat.” 

The two losing knights drew sullenly up to Bernard, Arthur on his horse and the blue knight on the ground. As Bernard reached out his arm to shake the blue knight’s hand Arthur took the lance still in his hand and used it to push Bernard from his saddle. The blue knight jumped out of the way as the crowd gasped, Bernard’s side of the field booing at Arthur’s actions while the rest of the crowd cheered wildly.

“Well,” the announcer said, sounding somewhere between cross and amused, “shall we let them show off their skills in combat yet again?”

Tara tried to add her voice to the crowd’s cheer of approval, but there was something about the blue knight’s gait as he walked toward the sword’s that drew her breath away. The announcer said something about using whatever weapons they liked, gesturing to the end of the field where Tara was, apparently asking for the king and queen’s approval. Tara glanced at them almost reflexively, seeing a blonde woman that resembled the two men from the horse show and a man who slightly resembled Bernard, though his smile was shy and small as he sat with a crown upon his head. Cheering brought her attention from the pair to the knights and she saw with a squeeze of her throat that the blue knight had picked up a war hammer, wielding it with the kind of easy familiarity that bespoke many years practice. She imagined a wild grin in her head and wished that she could see through his helm, just for a second.

Combat ended almost before it began. The knights turned on each other with fluid ease, Bernard and Arthur with their swords and the blue knight with his hammer. Bernard was knocked down, scrambling to get up as the blue knight advanced with his sword, but in the end it he too was flat on his back, Arthur above him with his own hammer. Tara choked back a small wounded noise as Arthur brought the hammer down on him despite the knowledge that this fight was more than likely choreographed as she fought past a wall of fear she couldn’t explain. Bernard got back up, but only for a second before Arthur smacked him aside and kicked his legs out from under him, surprisingly nimble in all that armor. The assistants rushed forward to help the fallen knights out of their helmets as Arthur pulled off his own, holding the hammer out to one side. Tara craned her neck to see the blue knight as the announcer began his closing spiel, the crowd milling around behind her now that the action was done. There was an assistant in her way at first, but she stepped upon the metal fence, hands curling around the metal as if she was a small child who needed the extra height and not a grown woman, and the assistant could not block her view of the knight then.

Her breath left her without so much as a passing goodbye. The world stopped, the crowd disappeared, and she could of sworn there was the chill of ice all around her. She felt like she was battered, like an army had raged at her, creatures so impossibly evil and large tossing her against stone again and again, and before she knew it a tear was carving its way down her cheek. She whispered a name, one she had not said before in this life, but her throat was so tight she made no sound. She tried to clear it, shaking, heart pounding in her ears. She wondered, for just a second, if she was dreaming, but she knew, as if someone was standing above her telling her, that this was real.

It was real. 

It was real and he was _right there_.

She cleared her throat again, leaning over the fencing, just as the announcer stopped talking and gathered everything she had for her shout. Her braid slipped over her shoulder as she leaned, her bangs getting into her eyes with the wind, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his form as he took his helm from the assistant and stood.

“Kili,” she tried, voice cracking, and once it was out of her mouth it was like a broken dam, building and building until she was raising her voice louder and louder. “Kili! _Kili! KILI!_ ”

It wasn’t the name the crowd had been cheering, but he jerked to a stop, spinning to face her. His dark hair was bound at the back of his head in a sloppy bun and his eyes, dark though they were, gleamed in the fading sunlight. His jaw went slack, helmet slipping from his fingers as their eyes met. And then, abruptly, he was running, charging at her, moving faster in his heavy metal armor than she had thought possible and she leaned toward him, not caring about anything else in the world as he reached the fence, slamming into it with enough force that she toppled forward, hands landing on his shoulders.

He reached up, trying to cup her cheek carefully in his metal gauntlets, and for a second she thought he was going to cry. He parted his lips, croaked out a sound that wasn’t quite words, before clearing his throat just as roughly as she had and starting over again.

“Tauriel,” he said, tilting her name up at the end like a question, like he wasn’t sure. She laughed, more tears slipping down her cheeks as she curled her fingers against the metal of his armor and struggled to breathe.

“Kili,” she repeated again. “You’re-“

Lips that she had only known as cold, chapped things belonging to a man who no longer walked upon the same world as she, interrupted her before she could continue. Lips that she had missed without knowing it, lips that were chapped and sweet and careful as they brushed against hers, so careful for a man so brash and brave and foolishly bright. Bright and warm and lovely like the stars. She dragged her hands up his neck and into his hair as she kissed him back, not caring that she was bent over the fence with it digging into her gut, not caring that she could hear people whistling and cheering as the announcer said something in a rough and fond voice.

All that mattered was the smile Kili pressed against her mouth before he drew back. He didn’t go far, just enough that their foreheads were barely touching, noses tapping each other with every breath. 

“Stones below, Tauriel,” he whispered, voice like gravel, drawing a long, breathless shiver from her. “I-“

“I love you,” she whispered, tugging at his hair as she interrupted him. He had said before she could last time, but this time it was her turn. He sputtered to a stop, looking shocked, cheeks going faintly pink as he leaned back from her words. She clutched his head, pulling her lips into a smile, wishing she had done this on that beach instead.

“I _love_ you,” she repeated, bold and uncaring if anyone heard. “I lived for more years than I would like to recall without telling you and I could not stand it a moment more to continue as such, so if you do not love me tell me now and I will-“

He pulled her down to kiss her again rather than answer her. She melted into the kiss, feeling the stone weight of her loneliness begin to leave her as he whispered against her lips. 

“I love you too,” he whispered, curling an arm around her waist to hoist her over the fence. She could have helped with, more than able to get herself over a fence without fuss, but she liked his arm around her, especially once her feet were on the ground and he turned out to be _tall_. Kissing him like this was going to be much easier than kissing him would have been, she reflected with a little thrill of amusement as she curled her arms around his shoulders and leaned forward against his chest. 

An unfamiliar feeling pooled in her gut, turning slowly as Kili fumbled through the effort of pulling off one of his gauntlets so that he could card his hand through her hair. Tauriel could have helped him, but she was distracted, partially by the sight of a bearded blonde man running toward them, grinning like a loon with Sigrid right on his heels, but also partially by the realization of what that feeling in her chest was.

Home was where the heart was and Tauriel was finally, blissfully, home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god. a year in the making and this is finally fucking finished. i have been trying to type up the ending to this all day after going to the faire yesterday and have been so disinterest in every aspect of life that it took me literally twelve hours to get maybe two thousand words out. but it is finished, i am so relieved. there are probs some typos, which i will fix after work tomorrow, but for now, everyone, we are done.
> 
> so i hope you enjoyed this, my little story. maybe there will be more, like some snippets from the world, but at the moment i doubt it. (mostly because i have work in six hours and haven't slept and have no interest in anything happening in my life rn but that will pass and my love for this story will rise again more than likely, so have no fear!)
> 
> i wish everyone a great day and hope they have find their homes too, wherever they are. :)

**Author's Note:**

> bruh, this is old as hell??? i was writing when i was still in uni, which feels like it was a gazillion years ago now (it was like, a year ago, but w/e). anyway i'm going to the local renn faire next weekend (SO EXCITED), which means i'm gonna finally, finally write the last chapter to this and post it! should be spending the rest of the week cleaning up this fic from ff.net and posting it here in prep for that too. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed! i didn't realize how much i missed this fic until i proof read this part lol.


End file.
